And the Question of Why
by Linwe Mithrandir
Summary: A beginning, an end; a resolution, a decision. A wandering Loki has "died" on Svartalfheim and a heartbroken Odin contemplates on what to do with the Odinsleep fast approaching. [a little thing concocted due to speculation of what may have happened to put Loki on the throne of Asgard. Takes place after Thor: The Dark World]
1. Cheese and Crackers

My mother and I were speculating on what exactly may have happened to put Loki on the throne of Asgard at the end of Thor: The Dark World - so, inspired, we worked together on this little fic. This first one was written mostly by her with some of my editing.

* * *

The child sat on the bench patiently waiting for the bus. There would be 90 more minutes before his trip would be complete and he would be home. But he had his books with him and the golden heart that beat within his chest.

While the boy waited for the bus he was approached by a man looking weary and tired; his clothes were disheveled and he smelled of a hangover.

The man sat next to the boy but the boy did not move further down on the bench. Instead, he simply smiled and gave a, "Good morning."

"Mind if I sit here a while?" Said the old man as he sat down.

"Sure," the boy replied, "are you waiting for the number 17?"

"Oh no, I'm just resting here a while before I continue on. It's a nice place to rest." He paused a moment before nodding his head, "What do you have there, young man." The old man reached into his coat to find the remains of a cigarette he had found on the street only moments ago.

"A book, sir. I enjoy reading; I find it keeps my mind busy. What do you have there?" said the boy as he gestured to the cigarette in kind.

"It is an indulgence. One of the few I have left." and the man began patting his pockets as though doing so would cause a match to magically appear though he had none and knew it.

"Here, why don't you try this instead?" and boy reached into his backpack and pulled out a few packets of cheese-and-crackers. He handed them to the old man.

"Son, you should keep those."

"Oh, don't worry about me. I have all I need and this will give your mouth something better to do than smoke that cigarette." And the boy put the packets on the bench between them.

"And would you like some water?" but he did not wait for answer, he pulled the water out of his backpack and handed it to the old man.

Looking puzzled at the gifts that were now beside him the old man looked intently at the water and the crackers.

"Why?" he said, but his voice cracked and he could barely speak the word. The boy returned to reading his book but this was just to avoid the gaze of the man next to him.

"When my dad was alive, he took care of me. Gave me everything I needed. He died – in an accident. It was no one's fault. And, I guess whenever I see men like you, I think of him. And I wish I could've helped him. But because I cannot, I help you." The boy wiped his face with his sleeve. He took a deep breath and looked at the old man.

"So please, take these. It is a small thing for me but you look like you could use them." With a shaky hand, the old man took the gifts and placed them in his pockets.

"I won't take charity. But here, how about you take these," and the old man pulled from his pocket a few pieces of paper and handed them to the boy.

"Lottery tickets?" the boy said.

"Yes, I found them a few streets over. Maybe your kindness will bring you luck." With a shove and groan, the old man stood and looked at the boy, "Best of luck to you. Thank you. I, too, miss my father."

"Is he still alive?" asked the boy.

"Oh yes. But he lives a great distance from here and I'm not so sure that he would be very happy to see me."

"Well," started the boy, "if I had a son, it wouldn't matter where he had been or what he had done, I think I would be happy to have him back. I have a few dollars if ..." and as the boy reached into his pocket, the old man raised his hand in protest.

"No, boy. You are wise beyond your years. Keep your money and hold on to those tickets. And I… I'm going to think about what you said." With a pat on the shoulder, the man walked away. The boy watched him as he walked down the sidewalk. The old man no longer hunched over as he had been when he originally approached the bench, instead he now walked as if a new man, his head high. The boy kept his eye on him until the old man had crossed the street and turned the corner, out of sight. Having turned the corner and out of sight of the boy, the old man shimmered and Loki looked at the crackers and water so freely given.

"If only my father had been like the father you would claim to be," he whispered.

Feeling very good about repaying the boy with lottery tickets that would surely change his life, Loki looked for the passage that he knew would lead him back to Svartalfheim. Perhaps, he thought, he _would_ give his father one last visit.

The boy was joined by a few other people on the bench when the number 17 bus arrived. The boy stood and looked at the tickets, three in all. He gave one to each of the people that sat on the bench near him and wished them luck. Another boy, much younger than himself sat on the bench. After a moment, he pulled the book he had been reading out of his backpack and handed it to the child, "It's about Norse mythology," he told him, "Gods and such. It's pretty interesting – if not a little inaccurate in certain places."

He boarded the bus – its only passenger, in fact, and took a seat. Soon, it departed to go a great distance: it left the inner city and journeyed on from the major highway to paved roads and finally to dirt roads and a farm. The bus doors opened and the boy stepped out, thanked the driver and began walking to the middle of the field. When the bus had continued on its way, the boy shimmered and Odin called out, "Heimdall, I am ready." In a brilliant light, the Allfather returned to Asgard with the hope of seeing Loki soon to continue their conversation.


	2. Why?

This second chapter is written entirely by myself - it takes place a bit before the last chapter and then it spans ahead of it. I mostly listened to Linda Ronstadt's, "Winter Light," while I wrote it and had many feels! - Many feels indeed!

* * *

Loki had contemplated for quite a while on what action to take when Thor had decided to bring him along on their quest for vengeance. There was no doubt he would escape, they must've all known that. That he'd do it in some way, somehow. The Allfather, even in all of his unparalleled power, could not keep him for long. Oh, Loki did not wonder at whether to help Thor or no – because it would never be about helping Thor: he wanted, he _needed _vengeance, even more so than the noble and true son of Odin could ever comprehend. Anger, fury, hate, rage, [heart-shattering, soul-crushing, _maddening_ self-contempt]coursed through his veins – infused into his bloodstream. He would cut out Malekith's black heart [… he'd cut out his own, maybe].

No, Loki contemplated on what he'd do with his newfound freedom when he finally had it – where to go, what to devise. At one point he'd thought that maybe he really should die, maybe he deserved it. He did, he concluded. Odin was right, Death was his birthright; an old adversary he had eluded (time and time again) – and Loki decided that one day, on his own terms, he _would_ resolve to meet him. But… not just yet. What he would do in its stead? Well, that certainly was the question, wasn't it?

He'd thought of traveling the realms; wandering them, perhaps, like his father – Not-Father – had once done in his youth. He'd be unknown – and there was a freedom in anonymity. But _what then_? Would he lead some trivial mortal life for a time? Get a job, perhaps? Acquire a place of power and rule subtly, quietly, underneath Midgard's protective force, SHIELD's, naïve nose? He laughed a little at the thought of cleverly, carefully taking over SHIELD – oh; he imagined that would be a fun game. But such attention was undesired…

_ "… there will be no realm, no barren moon, no crevice where he cannot find you …"_

Loki cringed at the memory of _him_: a darkness he'd never encountered before. No, not even the dark elves were quite as dark as that World of Night and its Master of Shade. Yes, he would be forced to be nameless. He hadn't been contacted, not ever since New York, not ever since going into the Great and All-powerful Odin's custody. But how safe was he really? Even traveling Midgard, garbed as an old, homeless drunk – a perfect disguise: humility always was (and perhaps, it suited Loki best for now – humility… and drink) – he was not guaranteed safety. He'd never stopped wondering if it was a bluff. He was adept in weeding out lies, in picking apart poker faces, in defacing disguises – after all, he was the "god of lies," – the greatest deceiver to live, hm (and now die)? It was rare anything got past him. But as he gazed upon that terrible creature, "the Other," he could not discern truth from façade – it probably didn't help that his mind had been muddled with pain both physical and mental – with a madness so sinister and overwhelming he knew nothing else.

Whether yes or no, one thing was for certain, there was no way to ensure that he was entirely, completely safe – even without the threat of Thanos (the name alone caused a shiver to crawl down Loki's spine), he would not be safe from _everything_. But being a dead man – god, Asgardian, Frost Giant, what-have-you – was a somewhat safer status than a fallen prince on the run yet still capable of capturing. A little voice whispered to him, sounding not so different from that of a woman now gone forever and so familiar.

"What if you didn't have to be on the run?"

He scoffed at the thought. No, he wouldn't – _could not_ return. Not alive, at any rate. It was better to be dead. His father – Not-Father – would rather him dead. _He'd_ rather himself dead. Being dead was best. But perhaps… he could tell his father – Not-Father – himself before anyone else could. Maybe one last time he could look upon that face… the face of the man; the warrior; the legend; the god that he'd wanted to be ever since he could remember. But that was not his destiny. Could never be. He wasn't even the same race, let alone of Odin's noble blood.

Loki suddenly felt sick at the thought of seeing the Allfather again – resentment and betrayal boiled in the pit of his stomach, but he wasn't quite sure if it was because of the actions of the King of Asgard or if it was because of his own. Never mind if he could forgive Thor or Odin – could he forgive _himself_? Not even knowing that Malekith had paid for his mother's death could rid him of the self-loathing he felt now more than ever before. Maybe he _should_ just wander – let someone else tell Odin of his brave and impressive death, let them feign their mourning, let them find the body of the dead dark elf he'd disguised to look like him, let them burn it, let them burn their memory of him away forever.

Either way, he'd need to make a decision soon – he'd hidden the body well, so it wasn't likely they'd find it very easily… but it also wasn't likely that they wouldn't find it at all. He had to either put it in plain sight or take it to them himself. But decisions were difficult and he found that the busy streets of Midgard helped him think. Its people were so peculiar, odd, truly ant-like things. Loki recalled Thor once accusing him of feeling like he was better than the mortals – he was, there was no doubt. But, there was something fascinating [and familiar] in their naiveté, in their constant confusion, in their mad scramble for power, in their lack of reason and common sense, even in their stupidity. He would've made a good king. A mad, broken king for a mad, broken world.

But there were good things in this world… refreshing, almost beautiful things.

"There are beautiful things about you, too." The voice spoke again, and Loki rolled his eyes at such a ridiculous notion. There were brilliant things about him – he was clever, sly, ingenious, cunning, and imaginative – but he was not beautiful. He was not a treasure – _not _a _thing _to be placed upon some _pedestal_ and _forgotten_: he was a force to be reckoned with – a _king_. He was nothing like this poor, puerile realm.

This realm… which had fought so hard against him, which had won… which had, in fact, proved _it _was a force to be reckoned with. A smirk pulled at the corners of Loki's – the homeless man's chapped – lips. What a strange thought… to be in any way similar to this childish, foolish world. And what an even stranger thought… to learn something from one of its children. To let a child's opinion – a Midgardian child's no less – sway his opinions. To make him think that perhaps he really should pay his father – Not-Father – one last visit. The boy had touched his heart in a way very few had ever done. Perhaps it was that the boy looked so familiar to him. Bright, expressive blue eyes framed by golden locks. He'd looked, almost, like Thor had when he was a child.

Loki took a bite of one of the crackers – the food wasn't the best on Midgard, but he'd suffered worse. He would go to his father – Not-Father. He would tell Odin himself of his death. He would be forgotten, hopefully. He'd go to his chambers as well. Take a few things. Like a few of his favourite books. That boy was certain of one thing, books keep the mind busy – and Loki suspected he'd need his mind to be busy for quite a while. What a wise child – far wiser than he had ever been at that age. The boy couldn't have been more than – what? 11 or 12 in Midgardian years? But then again, sometimes it seemed that no matter what Loki did, he could never do the wise thing. Things always seemed to slip just past his fingers. He was always _close_, always _nearly there_, _nearly right, nearly good_. Nearly, nearly, nearly.

And as Loki gathered his strength and transformed into an Einherjar soldier, he prepared himself to face his Nearly-Father. He looked at himself in one of the mirrors in the palace, feeling a bit proud of how well he had disguised himself, feeling a bit thrilled at the small amount of mischief he was indulging himself in… allowing that feeling of excitement to dull out the feeling of pure, heart-stopping fear and anxiety. He thought of what the boy had said… how if he were a father, he would be glad to see his son no matter what. _Even after he was the cause of your wife's death? Even after he'd tried to kill your true son? Even after he'd been stupid, idiotic, moronic time and time again? Even with the knowledge that your __**son**__ is not even your son but an imposter – a monster?_

"No, boy," Loki muttered, "He would not be glad to see me. And neither would you."

He made sure everything was in place and then swallowed – realizing the time was now or never. Little did Loki know that the King of Asgard and Protector of the Nine Realms had already been informed of Loki's "death" – little did he know, that they had already discovered the body of the dark elf – little did he know that Odin had already taken away the disguise – little did he know Odin had already figured Loki out the first time he'd come as the Einherjar to tell him he would survey Svartalfheim for Thor. See, he knew his son, knew him anywhere. And little did Loki know… that the Allfather awaited him even now, knew he had finally come home.

As the Einherjar Lieutenant, Loki flew open the doors of the throne room, nearly sprinting to the King. His face etched with concern as the words flew across his silver and sly tongue. Odin looked expectantly at the soldier, Loki assuming that he desired to hear his report.

"There's no sign of Thor or of the Aether," He started, taking in a breath. Staring up into the smoldering eye of the one who had raised him, who had read him bedtime stories, who had called him 'son,' who had been his Once-Father. The expression on the Allfather's face was unreadable – unsurprised as he turned away.

"However, we found a body…"

And then he turned, something strange flickering across his face. Was it – Loki anticipated, trying to keep from furrowing his brow in confusion as to not give anything away – recognition?

"Loki…" It was spoken so softly, as if his heart was breaking, and Loki felt his resolve crumbling as he watched his Once-Father's face.

"Yes." He replied – unsure to what exactly he was answering. He grew eager to take his leave. Perhaps he had been wrong; perhaps he shouldn't have done this. Oh yes, he greatly desired running now, sprinting, evaporating. But his legs would not budge. He could not move. He wondered if Odin had cast a spell on him, and anger seeped into him._ How dare he? _He screamed in his mind, before calming and realizing that Odin had no reason to do anything of the sort. He hadn't called _him_ Loki, that'd be impossible… he was simply confirming that Loki was the body that he'd found on Svartalfheim. He couldn't move because fear was freezing him to this spot. Bracing himself, he forced a step forward. Feeling relieved at the ability to do so now.

Gently, with care, he spoke again to the King who looked so forlorn, "I am sorry, my King." He said, "There was nothing to be done. He was already dead by the time we… we brought him to the healing rooms."

A ghost of a smile crossed over Odin's features and this time Loki could not help but look absolutely bewildered.

"My King?"

But Odin said nothing in reply, he only moved forward, closer to Loki. And again Loki felt like running, his nerve breaking once more. His heartbeat sped up, fear closing his throat and making it difficult to breathe. His eyes were wild, and he knew he was losing control. Tears began to fill his eyes – oh, how he hated them. Hated them. _Hated them_. He'd always been so _weak_.

"I am sorry," The King spoke suddenly and placed two hands on Loki's shoulders, causing him to jump in surprise, "I regret to say that I have never been skilled in the art of comfort."

For a moment, Loki wondered if Odin just thought his display of emotion was simply for that of the fallen prince. _Yes, let him think I am a subject brokenhearted over the loss of the wayward outcast that had once been in line to the throne – had once sat upon the throne. Who was lost and gave his life for the safety of the nine realms. Then I shall leave for the sake of an Einherjar's pride._ But then, there was something about the way his Once-Father looked at him now… something that squeezed his heart and lungs.

"Sometimes I wonder…" And the King's voice was shaky – Loki had never heard his Once-Father speak in the way he did now. Even when… even when he had been dangling from Gungnir, over the edge of the Bifrost, his Once-Father had never spoken to him like that.

"I wonder… had I been more like… your mother in her tenderness, had I been softer… you would better know – no, you _would_ know how much I truly loved you… how much I _do_ love you."

And the breath in Loki's throat caught as Odin wrapped his great arms around him. Holding him tightly as if he _were_, in fact, dangling over the edge of the Bifrost once more.

"My son."

And Loki could not hold them back any longer. The tears rushed from his eyes, his eyes that now turned from their faux chocolate brown into the crystal blue. His body racked with sobs and he could not bring himself to move his arms or say a word. Had he been able to, he would've covered his face – he would've pushed Odin away – he would run… run so far, so, so, so far away. He had been such a fool to believe he could trick Odin: he who had given his right eye for the sake of _foresight_. Loki should have known.

"I – I should've known!" Loki wanted to sound angry, sound heartless… but the words only came out like a frightened child's who'd just woken up from a nightmare. They held more brokenness than anger, and they only elicited a tighter hug and soft chuckle from Odin. Oh, that chuckle infuriated Loki. **Who was he to laugh at his pain?**

"Don't – don't laugh at m-me!"

"My son, if I laugh, it is only because I am happy that you are finally here at last by my side, where you are needed, _where you belong_. I know I would be a fool to hope that you will stay… after all that I have done. But for once, Loki, my boy, I will not be so proud… for I am sure that I am the greatest fool to have ever lived."

And then Loki was laughing, laughing and weeping so fully – he dared himself to stay in his father's arms for this moment – to accept what had been so cruelly denied him. He struggled to respond – it was practically impossible, with all of his blubbering. Everything he had felt so angry about… his betrayal, his rejection, his fear, his failure, his mother's… his mother's **death**. He sobbed it. He sobbed it into his father's shoulder. All he ever wanted… all he _ever __**wanted**_. _It must be a dream_, he thought.

That voice from before whispered again, "It's not, Loki."

"Why?" He finally choked out.


	3. His Son

This last chapter has bits and pieces written by both my mother and I (though the idea was primarily my mother's) - it references a little of each chapter and ends presumably before Loki takes the throne. I'm not sure if I'll write any further on it (perhaps I'll create Loki's reflection or something of the like), but this is, as far as I know, the end of our little story/explanation.

* * *

All of Asgard shook as the Allfather realized what had happen. He had raised his sons together and as equals but always with the thought that Loki would secure Jotunheim and serve Thor when Odin had finally gone. Now all his plans were in ruin. This child he had saved from certain death now plotted with his flesh-and-blood to flaunt his command. In a rage of anger, Odin destroyed the cell that had once held Loki. If he ever returned, he thought, he would not put him in a cell; he would utterly destroy him.

Having surveyed the dungeon, Odin returned to the palace and then to his throne room. He sat upon the throne of his grandfather Buri and his father Bor. He called upon their strength for he felt his own leaving him.

"Go and find the wayward princes and Jane Foster. Return them here at once." At that, the guards left for the one place they knew Loki and Thor were headed: Svartalfheim.

Alone in his throne room, utterly alone, Odin sat astride the throne and put his head in his hands. In the silence of the moment he felt the yearning for sleep – the Odinsleep. It was no wonder with all that had happened; the betrayal by Loki; the Aeither and return of the dark elves; the death of Frigga; and now Thor too had left him. Everything around him seemed to be fading or dying and he was helpless against it. It was at times like these that he would look to Frigga, who was his strength – his greatest, most trustworthy advisor.

He knew what would come next; Thor, Loki and the Jane-girl would return to Asgard. He no longer had the strength to kill Loki but decided that he should nonetheless never see the light of day again. Odin's last command before entering his sleep would be to sentence Loki to the lowest and most severe of all the dungeons. There, Loki would live out the rest of his days – his life spared if only for the sake of Frigga. That done, Odin would have Jane killed as quickly and painlessly as possible. Death was the greatest release for her kind and with her gone Thor would no longer be distracted and could take the throne of Asgard. It all made sense. Raising his head, he straightened himself. Sure in the resolve of his choices. This was how it must be.

In the grand hall of the throne room of Asgard, empty save for its king, a small and gentle voice spoke. So much softer and kinder than Odin's own voice; it was a voice he had heard for thousands of years – a voice that had guided him through the very best and the very worst. But it was not possible to hear this voice, not now. For Frigga was dead and could not give wise counsel anymore.

"Is he so different than you were at his age?" It was a question Odin heard not with his ears but with his heart.

"He is reckless; thoughtless; he thinks nothing of the pain of others. He is arrogant and greedy. He only desires power." Odin spun around to see who else was in the room with him. Surely this was Loki playing a trick or one of his poor deluded followers. But none but him was to be found in the throne room.

"Do mean Loki or yourself?" Again, it was the voice of Frigga. He looked around with a mixture of anger and hope. Perhaps she was not dead. Perhaps she had used her gifts and hid herself away and only now was able to come to him. He descended a few steps away from the throne, aware that it could be a trap set by his thankless, ungrateful son.

"I speak of Loki, of course." If it was the child, he would call him out; bait him and trap him in the snare he was setting. "He is worthless and hopeless..." but before he could finish, Odin was filled with a sense of warmth that brushed across his lips and silenced his words.

A single tear welled up but it dared not leave the Allfather's eye.

"Frigga?" Odin whispered.

"They are our sons – both of them."

Again, Odin looked around the room but could see no one, could sense no one but he knew the voice, it was clearly Frigga.

"Our sons they may be, but neither is worthy. Both would bring darkness and result in the fall of the realms."

Odin asserted himself. Stood straight and waited for friend or enemy to appear. After a few moments, he took another step down away from the throne toward the great hall.

"Odin, you must forgive him." the voice whispered so tenderly, "He is more like you than you realize."

"He is **nothing** like me!" raged the King of Asgard and as he turned to ascend back to the throne, he stood face-to-face with her spirit; the spirit of Frigga. She looked like he had remembered her – her hair adorned with jewels fashioned by Asgardian smiths, worn long and beautiful – her eyes, as lovely and kind as ever; those eyes that pierced into his soul, those eyes he could not hide from. He stepped back and almost stumbled.

"He is _just_ like you." She caressed his face and Odin was filled with warmth once more. He reached out to touch her but his hand only passed through the image… the spell… the spirit. Whatever magic she had conjured to be there was limited and she was beyond a veil that Odin could not reach.

"My beloved," Frigga spoke, "he has good in him. He only needs the opportunity to show it."

The Allfather hung his head; shame crept through his heart in light of his earlier thoughts. He knew her words were true. The sadness that had overwhelmed him gave way to resignation. He knew Thor would not return in time before the Odinsleep took him. But perhaps all was not lost.

"And what would you have me do? Give him the throne. Let Loki run the realms? And what of our son, Thor? There is good in him, too. Do I dismiss the son you bore me for the son that took you from me?"

Frigga smiled, "Just speak with him and do what is in your heart to do. Even now, Loki comes to you as an Einherjar. And afterward, he will go to Midgard."

"And if I, the Allfather, reach out my hand to welcome back my son, will he not slap it away?"

"Then do not meet him as the Allfather. After all, he does not meet you as Loki." And her spirit faded as the footsteps of the Einherjar became louder.

Odin looked at the man that stood before him. He was in an instant overwhelmed but knew he could not show it, not yet. He would let Loki play his game and he would meet him on Midgard. But he had to be clever – as clever as his trickster son, he would have to meet him as one he should never suspect.

And now Loki stood before him again. All masks removed, each of them looking at the other – maybe for the first time, as they really were. Odin thought of Frigga's words and while his mind was not sure it had not been a trick, his heart knew the words were true. Loki was truly his son. In fact, Odin realized, perhaps Loki was even more so his son than Thor. For Thor, despite his past boorishness had always possessed the strong, perceptive, gentle heart of his mother rather than his father's stubborn and proud doggedness. It had not been difficult for Thor to see the error of his ways, to humble himself… it would take Loki [and Odin] far longer. Odin thought of the days when he and his brothers Vili and Ve had fought together; had laughed together. He thought of the sadness he had seen in his father's eyes when they had brought Vili and Ve's dead bodies to him.

Loki's "why," hung in the air. How could he convey to his son all he had learned in the moments after he and Thor had left? He didn't know, but he would try.

Odin looked into his son's face. As he began to speak, he felt it. First pain, then numbness, then nothing. Strength had left him. He was falling into the Odinsleep. There was no time.

Odin collapsed on the steps of the throne. Loki caught him but could not hold him so he carefully put him down upon the steps. "**FATHER**!" he cried but Odin shook his head. He summoned all his strength.

"We are in danger, my son." And Odin removed his helmet and pushed it into Loki's chest. "For the sake of the nine realms, I cannot leave the throne."

Loki looked down at the helmet and then to his father's face.

"Loki, there is much to be done. But there is no time. Loki, you must ..." but Odin could not finish his statement. The Odinsleep had taken him over. And Loki was left alone with the helmet of Odin and the question of "why."

* * *

I do hope you enjoyed! ~ I know we did! I must say though, this, of all the possibilities, is probably the very best (and possibly one of the least likely) - but HEY, we can dream/write fanfic about it! ~_^


End file.
